THE MIST FLOODING the streets of Vallvidrera left a trace of dew on Vargas’s clothes. He watched the taxi pull away and walked towards the lights of the bar next to the funicular station. The place was deserted at that time of night, and a CLOSED notice hung on the door. Vargas looked through the glass front and scanned the interior. A waiter was drying glasses behind the counter, with only the radio and a mutt that a flea wouldn’t have touched to save its life for company. Vargas rapped on the glass with his knuckles. The waiter looked up from his boredom. He glanced at Vargas, then shook his head slowly. Vargas pulled out his badge and knocked again, louder. The waiter sighed and walked around the bar and over to the door. The dog, woken from its stupor, limped along, acting as his bodyguard.
“Police,” announced Vargas. “I need to use your telephone.”
The waiter opened the door and let him in. He pointed to the phone by the entrance gate to the counter. “Shall I serve you anything, while we’re at it?”
“A cortado, if it’s not too much bother.”
While the waiter was getting the coffee machine ready, Vargas picked up the phone and dialled the number for police headquarters. The dog planted itself next to him and observed him with dozing eyes and a feeble wag of the tail.
“Chusco, don’t bother him,” warned the waiter.
As Vargas waited for a reply, he and Chusco sized each other up, comparing their degrees of seniority and general wear and tear.
“How old is the dog?” asked the policeman.
The waiter shrugged. “When I bought the bar he was already here, and he couldn’t even hold back his farts. And that was ten years ago.”
“What breed is it?”
Chusco flopped down onto one side and showed Vargas a bare pink belly. On the other end of the line someone cleared his throat.
“Get me Linares. Vargas here, from Central Police Headquarters.”
Shortly afterwards he heard a click on the line and the slightly mocking voice of Linares. “I thought you’d be back in Madrid by now, Vargas, collecting medals.”
“I’ve stayed on a few days longer so I can catch one of those processions with papier-mâché giants and big-heads.”
“Don’t get too excited – all the seats are gone already. How can I help you at this time of night? Don’t tell me you have bad news.”
“That depends. I’m in Vallvidrera, in the bar next to the funicular station.”
“The best views in all Barcelona.”
“You can say that! A while ago I saw a corpse in a house on Carretera de las Aguas.”
Vargas enjoyed Linares’s reaction.
“Holy shit,” Linares grunted. “Was that necessary?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me who the deceased is?”
“You weren’t going to tell me anyhow.”
“I would if I knew.”
“Maybe you could tell me what the hell you were doing at such a late hour up there. Walking in your sleep?”
“Tying up loose ends. You know how it is.”
“Sure. And I suppose you expect me to get a judge out of bed now to sign it off.”
“If it’s not too much to ask.”
Linares huffed again. Vargas heard him voicing instructions. “Give me an hour, or an hour and a half,” he said to Vargas. “And do me a favour: don’t find any more stiffs, if you don’t mind.”
“Will do.”
Vargas put down the phone and lit a cigarette. A steaming cortado awaited him on the counter. The waiter looked at him, vaguely curious.
“You haven’t heard anything,” Vargas advised him.
“Don’t worry, I’m as deaf as Chusco.”
“Can I make another call?”
The waiter shrugged. Vargas dialled the number of the flat on Calle Aviñón. He had to wait a few minutes for an answer. At last he heard the receiver being picked up and the sound of soft breathing on the other end.
“It’s me, Alicia. Vargas.”
“Vargas?”
“Don’t say you’ve forgotten me already.”
A long pause. Alicia’s voice sounded as if it were coming from inside a fish tank. “I thought it would be Leandro,” she said at last, dragging her words.
“You sound odd. Have you been drinking?”
“When I drink I don’t sound odd, Vargas.”
“What did you take?”
“A little glass of warm milk before saying my prayers and going to bed.”
“Where were you?” he asked.
“I was having a drink with Daniel Sempere.”
Vargas was silent for a while.
“I know what I’m doing, Vargas.”
“If you say so.”
“Where are you?”
“In Vallvidrera, waiting for the police and the judge to come and remove the body.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I went to Mataix’s house, trying to finish tying up loose ends, and I came across a surprise.”
“And they bought that?”
“Of course not, but I still have good friends in the force.”
“What are you going to tell them about the body?”
“That I don’t recognize him because I’d never seen him before. Which is technically true.”
“Does your friend know you’ve been taken off the case?”
“He probably found out before I did. He’s always ahead of the game.”
“As soon as the body is identified, the news will reach Madrid. And Leandro.”
“Which gives us a few hours’ leeway,” Vargas said. “With luck, that is.”
“Did Fermín tell you anything?”
“Pearls of wisdom. And that you two have a pending conversation.”
“I know. Did he say what it was about?”
“We’ve become close, but not that close. I have a feeling Fermín thinks you’re someone from his past.”
“So what now?”
“Once the judge has signed the warrant for the body to be removed, I’ll accompany the body to the morgue, arguing that it might be part of my investigation. I know the pathologist from my years in Leganés. He’s a good man. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“You’ll be there at least until sunrise.”
“At least. I’ll take a nap in the morgue. I’m sure they’ll lend me a nice table,” joked Vargas half-heartedly.
“Take care. And call me as soon as you know anything.”
“Don’t worry. You try to get some rest.”
Vargas put down the phone and went over to the counter. He drank his coffee, which was lukewarm by now, swallowing it in one gulp.
“Shall I serve you another?”
“Perhaps I’d rather a large coffee with milk.”
“A pastry to go with it? It’s on the house. I’ll have to chuck them tomorrow.”
“All right, then.”
Vargas pulled a horn off the dry croissant and examined it against the light, debating whether swallowing that thing was a good idea. Chusco, with the low-scruple threshold peculiar to the species, was watching him attentively and licking his lips in anticipation. Vargas let the piece of pastry fall, and Chusco captured it in mid-flight. The dog proceeded to devour the prize avidly and then panted at Vargas in eternal gratitude.
“Watch out, or you’ll never get rid of him,” warned the waiter.
Vargas exchanged another glance with his new best friend. He gave him the rest of the croissant, and Chusco swallowed it in one gulp. In this dog-eat-dog world, he thought, when you get old and even common sense hurts, a crumb of kindness or pity is a dish fit for the gods.
The ninety minutes promised by Linares turned into two long hours. When Vargas saw the headlights of the police car and the morgue van cutting through the mist as they came up the road, he paid for his coffees, adding a generous tip, and went out into the street to wait, cigarette in hand. Linares didn’t get out. He rolled down the window and signalled to Vargas to get into the car and sit next to him in the back seat. One of his men was driving. A chubby individual wrapped in a coat and bearing a sullen expression sat in the passenger seat.
“Your Honour,” Vargas greeted him.
The judge didn’t bother to reply or acknowledge his presence. Linares threw him a sharp glance and smiled, shrugging. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Close by. On Carretera de las Aguas.”
While they drove down towards the entrance to the road, Vargas looked at his old colleague out of the corner of his eye. Twenty years in the force had taken their toll, and more. “You’re looking well,” he lied.
Linares chuckled. Vargas met the judge’s look in the rear-view mirror.
“Old friends?” asked the judge.
“Vargas doesn’t have friends,” said Linares.
“Wise man.”
Vargas guided the driver through the dark track described by the road until the headlights outlined the iron gates of the Mataixes’ house. The van from the morgue followed close behind. They got out of the car, and the judge took a few steps forward to look at the outline of the house through the trees.
“The body is in the basement,” Vargas explained. “In a swimming pool. It’s probably been there two or three weeks.”
“No shit,” said one of the assistants from the mortuary, who looked like a beginner.
The judge drew up to Vargas and looked him in the eye. “Linares says you discovered it during the course of an investigation?”
“And you haven’t been able to identify it?”
“No, Your Honour.”
The judge turned to look at Linares, who was rubbing his hands together to keep warm.
The second mortuary assistant, older and with an impenetrable expression, walked over to the group and tried to catch Vargas’s eye. “One or several pieces?”
“Excuse me?”
“The deceased.”
“One. I believe.”
The man nodded. “Manolo, the large bag, the boat hook and a couple of shovels,” he said to his apprentice.
*
Half an hour later, while the morgue men were loading the corpse into the van and the judge was filling out forms on the police car’s bonnet under the beam of a torch held by Linares’s subordinate, Vargas noticed his old colleague standing next to him. Together, they silently watched the men struggle to lift the corpse, which was heavier than they’d expected, into the van. As they got on with the job, they bashed what must have been the corpse’s head a couple of times, quarrelling among themselves and swearing under their breath.
“Earth to earth,” murmured Linares. “One of ours?”
Vargas checked that the judge was out of earshot. “Something like that. I’m going to need a bit of time.”
Linares looked down. “Twelve hours, maximum. I can’t give you any more.”
“Hendaya . . .” said Vargas.
Linares nodded.
“Is Manero in the morgue?”
“Waiting for you. I’ve already told him you were going there.”
Vargas smiled in gratitude.
“Anything I need to know?” asked Linares.
Vargas shook his head. “How’s Manuela?”
“Fat as a hog, just like her mother.”
Linares nodded solemnly.
“I don’t suppose she remembers me,” Vargas said.
“Not by name, but she still refers to you as ‘that son of a bitch’. Fondly.”
Vargas offered his friend a cigarette, but he declined. “What’s happened to us, Linares?”
Linares shrugged. “Spain, I suppose.”
“It could be worse. We could be in the bag.”
“All in due course.”